DAVID ESTRINGEL

Boy with a Box Full of Wasps

Sweet nothings,

whispered under breath,

melt ears

like sonnets scribbled on paper

ripped from hornets’ nests

hanging from the trees.

Kisses

blown in the wind—

cold paralysis riding the breeze—

land their marks,

hard,

to sticking places (and jugulars)

like dark spells

or opiate darts.

How dubious this love,

like wildflowers in December

or a box full of wasps,

tied with ribbon--pink and satin--

like lips

that sting,

drunk on wine

from slices of green plum,

fermenting in the noon sun.

Ghosts in the garden

are we,

haunting the thorns

of rose bushes

and this poisoned well,

where wishes wither

and perish

at the touch of cold, liquid skin.

I love you?

I love you not?

Who’s the scare?

Who’s the crow?

Poppies

at the foot of the gate

blush, fiery, at conundrums

and the sticky-sweet of roseblood

on fingertips

and minds,

waiting

for the next turn of the screw.